In the 1963 blockbuster hit single “If You Wanna Be Happy,” the immortal Jimmy Soul advises us “Though her face is ugly and her eyes don’t match, take it from me, she’s a better catch.” Linnaeus himself could not have provided us with a more spot-on description of Lophius americanus – the American monkfish.

And a very fine catch she is. But before the early 1980s, most monkfish caught in the waters off New Jersey were destroyed, then unceremoniously tossed overboard. However, when hungry markets were discovered in both Europe and Asia, the species was soon fished to near-extinction.

Thanks to strict regulations adopted in 1998, the monkfish population recovered. And by 2003, this formerly despised byproduct of the scallop dredging industry had become New Jersey’s most valuable fin fish.

A record 3,259 metric tons was taken in 2008, most of it landed at Barnegat Light, with smaller but significant landings at Point Pleasant and Cape May. Today, our monkfish population is considered sustainable. And according to the Mid-Atlantic Fishery Management Council, there is no over-fishing at this time.

Unless you are employed aboard a commercial fishing vessel or patronize large Asian supermarkets, you are not likely to see a specimen of this bizarre creature complete with its head. And if you did, you might then refuse to eat it, which would be a great shame.

The monkfish goes by many names, including goosefish, belly fish, frogfish, allmouth, sea-devil, but perhaps most befittingly, anglerfish. Blending invisibly with sand, rock and coral, the female monkfish lies perfectly camouflaged on the sea bottom.

the female monkfish lies perfectly camouflaged on the sea bottom

One to three rod-like structures protrude from her spiky head, each terminating in a fleshy appendage called the esca. (In some angler species, this natural fishing lure actually glows with bio-luminescent bacteria.) Our otherwise frozen femme fatale twitches her esca bewitchingly, till some curious fish ventures near . . .

What happens in the next fraction of a second has been called the swiftest strike in all of Nature. Powerful arm-like pectoral fins propel her forward, while in the same instant, this living Charybdis opens her cavernous, tooth-lined mouth, creating an irresistible vortex that sucks her hapless victim inside.

. . . a living Charybdis

the male monkfish, dorsal view

The male monkfish is tiny in comparison to the female. He floats on the ocean’s currents without direction or porpoise, subsisting on Newports, bag snacks and Budweiser, engaging in one meaningless affair after another.

so deep in my heart, you’re really a part of me

Then when all seems hopeless, along comes the woman of his dreams. Joining himself to her with his teeth, he is inexorably subsumed – eyes, heart, brain, body and soul – till nothing remains of him but his testes. During her lifespan of a dozen or more years, a really hot-looking female monkfish may in this hideous fashion absorb six or more husbands.

Thelonious Monkfish, Body and Sole

Monkfish is often called “the poor man’s lobster.” But historically, the poor man’s lobster was in fact . . . lobster. In colonial America, indentured servants were so stuffed to the gills from eating it every day for breakfast, lunch and dinner that they sued for relief in court, after which they could no longer be compelled to eat lobster more than three times a week.

A rumor persists that devious chefs regularly fob monkfish off as lobster. But unless the victim of this supposed scam had never tasted lobster, such a subterfuge is truly hard to imagine. This tale may have originated with the same benighted conspiracists who believe that chefs punch counterfeit sea scallops out of skate wings with cookie cutters. Apparently, they have never tasted raie au beurre noir – skate wings with black butter sauce – either.

While the King of Crustacea’s crown remains secure upon his noble cephalothorax, the monkfish, taken on her own culinary merit, deserves at least a prominent place at court. She is held in the highest esteem all over the Italian peninsula. But in the seafood-obsessed city of Venice, where she is affectionately called rospo (toad), she is no less than the object of a culinary cult. In France, she is known as lotte and baudroie (bow-dwah). And without her presence at the dinner party, no Bouillabaisse a la Marseillaise is considered worthy of the name.

Though monkfish sometimes appears in the market fully filleted, the more usual form is a skinned tail. The specimen in the photograph below was fourteen inches long, and weighed a little over a pound.

A soft, cartilaginous spine runs down the center, dividing the two fillets. Because monkfish tails are otherwise boneless, they are often fed to children in France and Italy. From time to time, you may come across monkfish tails with the gray, membranous skin still attached. If that is the case, ask the counterperson to remove it for you.

When prepared as pictured, the French call monkfish gigot de mer (jee-goh duh mare), meaning sea leg. This may be a reference to its tapering shape, as well as to the similar manner in which leg of lamb is prepared and presented in the south of France.

Cut several cloves of garlic into slivers. With the point of a small, sharp knife, make the first incision into the meat, and with the blade still in place, insert a sliver of garlic. (This is much easier than making the incisions all at once, then trying to find them again when inserting the garlic.) A pluche (an herb sprig consisting of several leaves) of fresh rosemary may be inserted along with the garlic (see photo). Or if preferred, a single large branch of rosemary can be laid parallel to the spine, then tied in place with butcher string.

Preheat your oven to four hundred degrees. Place the prepared tail in a well-oiled oven dish. Drizzle a few more tablespoons of olive oil over the fish, adding salt and pepper to taste.

Cook, basting two or three times with the pan juices, until the meat can easily be pierced with a fork, and has begun to shrink away from the bone. Squeeze the juice of a lemon over it, and serve. A crisp, bone-dry rosé from Tavel or Lirac in the south of France would be perfect. Then again, a cold Bud wouldn’t be bad, either. But please – hold the bag snacks.